So i’ve been having the following dirty scenario playing in my head today:
Me and Mid Atlantic are spending a leisurely night on the town and are holed up in a particularly darkened booth. We’ve both got a few drinks under our belts, and I’m feeling oh-so-nice and mellow. I sit and look out into the rest of the dimly-lit bar, pretending not to notice his fingers running slowly along my shoulder and under the strap of my dress, i’m just absentmindedly stirring my cocktail.
I pretend not to notice the studied way he’s looking at me; I sip my drink, arch my back, narrow my eyes and relax into the leather-covered booth. I turn to MidAt and say that i’ll be back in a minute before getting up and wandering off to the toilets, knowing he’s watching my back as I walk away from the table.
Inside I lock myself in a cubicle, hang my coat up and sit down. I lean my head against the wall and laugh to myself; the metal paper holder feels cold and sticks to my cheek. I stand up and carefully step out of my knickers, bunching up the warm underwear and stuffing it in my coat pocket. I put my coat back on, leave and walk back to the table via the bar.
to be continued
Observer Bedroom Stories
I’m not so sure about the MidAt designation… Mid At, Mid-At… or something completely different? I like Mid Atlantic but it’s a little long to write.
